


The One Where Martin Listened to His Wife and Did His Damned Best to Change

by PanDisasterMan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: AU:Martin Stops Murdering The Day Malcolm Finds the Box/ When Jessica Confronts Him, Bit of OOC Martin, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, It's the Dowling's that need comforting, Kinda graphic description of injuries, M/M, Malcolm is Having None of This, Morally Gray Celestials, Screenplay/Script Format, Slugs are Cared For, They basically adopt Harriet and Warlock into the family, Vengeful Celestial God Parents, Vengeful Whitly's, Whitly's are fine, Whump, kind of dialogue heavy, murderous intent, poisonous plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 19:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21379585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanDisasterMan/pseuds/PanDisasterMan
Summary: What if Martin Whitly agreed to cut the Surgeon off the night Malcolm found the Box? What if he listened to his wife's wishes that night?The Whitly's Move across the pond in search of a new, blood-free life: they meet Harriet and Warlock Dowling and quickly find themselves endeared to them. Malcolm and Warlock have fun exchanging morbid facts and taking care of slugs. Harriet and Jessica bond over tea and lunches, and Martin loves his family so much.Everything goes pear-shaped when Harriet misses lunch, only to show up the next day, forlorn and bruised under make-up. No one in the Whitly household will stand for such abuse, and neither will the two strangers that arrive on their doorstep.Circumstance has a Funny way of changing people's outlook.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (implied), Jessica Whitly/Martin Whitly
Comments: 12
Kudos: 105





	The One Where Martin Listened to His Wife and Did His Damned Best to Change

**Author's Note:**

> Beware the tags; it's exactly what it says on the tin.  
TW: Domestic Violence, Child Abuse, and Murderous Ideation (All of which are implied/ not too graphic but There nonetheless)

Martin Whitly liked to think himself a respectable family man. Sure he has more than 24 murders under his belt, but that never got in the way of his job, his family. That fateful night Jessica pulled him aside and pleaded for their family to go-- to stop with the killings, the drugging, everything, and get away from the bloodied mansions of New York, he’d kissed her forehead and got to work immediately. 

Murder was a thrill. It was exhilarating and calculated, precise and neat, but he’d be damned before he let it consume him wholly. No, he would not jeopardize his wife, his kids, for his more violent needs. So, with a few phone calls, a plethora of labeled cardboard boxes, and a private plane across the Atlantic, the Whitly’s began life in Tadfield. New place, new beginnings.

No killings.

Dr. Whitly moved them all out to get away from all the murder nonsense. He wasn’t going to put them through that, no matter his urges.

The man wasn’t stupid. He’d already deduced that the NYPD would grow suspicious of The Surgeon’s sudden disappearance aligning with the prominent family’s relocation. A copycat resurfacing in the same vicinity of their new home would do nothing but put his family’s happiness in danger.

He’d get new hobbies! Ones that channel his more predatory impulses. Dr. Whitly would take up fencing and gardening, things that required precise care and occasional sharp objects. Personal journals would find themselves shelved with his more academic works, each describing different ways he could “operate” on an imaginary victim.

It takes a bit to get settled in. They needed time to unpack the essentials, hire people to furnish and decorate the house- the necessities. It’s different, but they adjust to the vast and verdant land.

* * *

Martin and his wife admit Malcolm into the local public school. They’d discussed with the administration that his son would be admitted under the surname ‘Bright,’ reason being that he was adamant about making ‘real’ friends instead of a group of followers. 

Needless to say, Malcolm didn’t have many friends. He was warm and friendly, but not many kids appreciated his strange medical hyper fixation. Knowing almost every out of practice psychiatric practice and bone in the human body raised a considerable amount of red flags in children and adults alike.

Despite Malcolm’s oddities he manages to make friends with the young and equally morbid Warlock Dowling. Like Malcolm, he was one of Tadfield’s wealthy and elite, attending public school for much the same reason. Unlike the young Whitly, he chose to keep his surname.

He knew he was a target for bullying. Being a long-haired goth boy with a name like “Warlock” didn’t always garner the best attention. That boy was as fearless as he was ruthless, never afraid to use his family name to gain the advantage. Given the opportunity, he’d make an excellent tyrant, but he was perfectly content in crushing human scum beneath his leather-clad heels. 

Malcolm’s parents unanimously came to the conclusion that they were going to protect this child at all costs.

The two boys existed on the same wavelength. Each oddity and morbid inquiry met with enthusiasm and curiosity. It was all very heartwarming if they were being honest. Dr. Whitly had come to accept the young lad as his own very quickly. His two macabre boys had the potential to grow into dark and powerful forces, but for now, they were content in running around the mansion and garden sowing low-grade havoc.

* * *

Malcolm invited Warlock over often, eager to spend time together and trade bizarre tidbits of information.

They sat in the dining room, homework and textbooks strewn across the table as they chatted amongst themselves. Malcolm had just finished reading his assigned reading for the day when he turned to the other boy, eyes twinkling with excitement.

**Malcolm: “Did you know that dead bodies don’t bruise?”**

The long-haired boy blinks, the smile gracing his face a mixture of creepy and fond.

**Warlock: “Actually I do. My nanny taught me that when I was little.”**

**Malcolm: “Your nanny seems really cool. I didn’t have a nanny, but I’ve had babysitters before. I don’t think they liked me much, called me weird for knowing so much about death. They never helped me with math either.”**

**Warlock: “I like it when you tell about that stuff, you get me. I’m good at maths, let me see what you’re stuck on and we can work on it together.”**

* * *

Both boys are crouched in the garden, Warlock showing the other how to prune the rose bushes properly. A slow and steady movement catches Malcolm’s eye.

**Malcolm: “Look, Warlock! There are slugs down here!! Wanna go salt them?”**

**Warlock: “No!!”**

**Malcolm: “Why not? It’ll be fun.”**

Warlock shakes his head resolute. He quietly lets a slug slime its way onto his palm and smiles softly at it.

**Warlock: “My gardener, Brother Francis, taught me that every life is precious. Each organism contributes to life, every life is interwoven in the fabric of an ecosystem.”**

**Malcolm: “But what about bullies and mean adults? Do they deserve the same mercy?”**

The other boy hums softly and gently returns the slug to where he’d found it. 

**Warlock: “People aren’t always good, but they should be granted a second chance. Animals and bugs are different because they don’t do bad on purpose. They don’t deserve unnecessary harm.”**

The young Whitly contemplates this, head tilted to the side.

**Malcolm: “... What about mosquitos?”**

The other boy replies resolute, not missing a beat. 

**Warlock: “Mosquitos don’t have rights. They’re the only exception to the rule.”**

When the two boys run up to Martin Whitly, asking for an aquarium, a spray bottle, and access to the family’s compost, they are met with an endeared sigh and tentative support. The three made quick work of finding a nice shady spot to erect the little slimy sanctuary. The joy and excitement on the boys’ faces were contagious.

Together, they carefully collected a few herbivorous slugs and gently cared for them. They even shared their passion project with little Ainsley, making sure she was careful when handling the tiny creatures and not over misting the tank.

* * *

**Warlock: “A lot of common or pretty plants and flowers are poisonous. Its kinda scary cause ingesting or coming into contact with them can cause things as ‘harmless’ as stomach problems and lethargy to serious things like comas, shock, or death.”**

**Malcolm: “What about fruits and vegetables?”**

**Warlock: “Oh yeah! Apple seeds and cherry pits hold trace levels of cyanide and rhubarb leaves can cause kidney problems. These are only the ones I know off the top of my head.”**

**Malcolm: “Did Brother Francis teach you that?”**

**Warlock: “Nope.”**

**Malcolm: “Nanny?”**

**Warlock: “...Not really?”**

**Malcolm: “Warlock? What did you do?”**

**Warlock: “When I was little I accidentally ate some deadly nightshade berries. I remember seeing black wings on my Nanny’s back when she carried me to Brother Francis’s shed. To this day I haven’t read of any cases involving hallucinations, but it must have some visual effect.” **

Warlock stares at the colorful patch of flowers and kicks some dirt at it.

**Warlock: “She got really upset and cried and I hated seeing her cry because of me, so I learned what things to avoid.”**

**Malcolm: “That's... Really concerning. Are you okay?”**

**Warlock: “I’m fine now. Stay away from these ones...”**

He points at the flowers he’s been eyeing, voice leaving no room for argument.

**Warlock: “Wolfsbane causes the more serious things.”**

Malcolm looked at the flowers and nodded, making a mental note to research them for safety.

* * *

Warlock didn’t talk about his parents often, specifically, he didn’t talk about his dad. He talked about his mother sometimes, but didn’t offer much. When she started accompanying Warlock on some of his visits, the Whitly’s were free to make their own observations.

His mother, Harriet, seemed nice enough. She loved her son, but never really knew how to show it, not in the way Warlock needed. She cared enough about him to ask for guidance and the presence of mind to let the boy choose which social events he attends. When he expressed aversion to things she didn’t strong-arm him, knowing full well that it would only damage their relationship. 

Harriet’s demure and jumpy nature was thought of as just her nature in the beginning, but after meeting her husband the elder Whitly’s grew suspicious.

The Whitly’s (including little Ainsley) unanimously agreed that Thaddeus Dowling was an utter prick.

The man made Martin, the sleeping Surgeon, uncomfortable, for good reason too. Thaddeus was self-righteous, self- serving, and aggressive. Unfortunately for everyone in the household, they’ve seen his “little outbursts” when his wife and child stayed over longer than stated. They all winced each time he joined them for lunch or tea: berating Harriet when she tried to contribute to an intellectual conversation, harassing Warlock’s appearance and proclivity for “a pansy hobby like gardening.” By the second visit from the man, Martin Whitly’s skin had itched for his old tools. 

It came to a head when Harriet cancelled their plans for lunch. It wasn’t normal for her to call off a meeting the day of, she prided herself in following her schedule to a T, and always let the other family know when she had other plans.

A bit put off, Jessica took the car to the Dowling estate, worried and concerned for her friend. A wave of nausea washed over her as she took in the sight at the door. Thaddeus- smiling and satisfied, with soon to be bruises sprinkled over his knuckles with no Harriet to be seen. 

It would be another day before Jessica could see her friend, and she’d spent the better part of the night worrying. What had Thaddeus done? Was Harriet okay? Was Warlock okay? Do they call the police? Should they call before consulting the family?

Soon enough, Warlock and Harriet enter the Whitly abode, looking more crestfallen than usual.

**Jessica: Warlock, sweetheart, why don’t you find Malcolm and Ains, hmm? There’s a spare cucumber in the kitchen to feed your pets.**

The boy nods at her before moving to hug his mother’s hip and walking out of view. Jessica turns back to her friend, concern painting her face.

**Jessica: Can I hug you?**

**Harriet: Why?**

**Jessica: I’m sorry if I come off as invasive or rude, but I stopped by your house yesterday. Your… husband had bruising knuckles, and you didn’t show up yesterday, and I assumed the worst. Are you okay?**

Harriet goes pale. His wife doesn’t notice it, but Martin notes that Harriet’s pupils dilate, she's sweating now, breath shallow and erratic. This close, he can see a slight swelling in her right cheek. She’s staring, frozen, at something in front of her, eyes glazing over and fading from the present.

**Martin, thinking: _All bodily reactions induced in the presence of fear, danger, fight & flight. Trauma. Oh, I’m going to end that man._**

Martin is the first to sit, he keeps his palms up, shoulders slack, and eyes kind. He does everything in his power to convey that there are no threats present.

**Martin: Harriet, hun, where are you right now?**

She blinks and frowns softly. The doctor looks at his wife and holds her hand softly, before trying again.

**Martin: What color is the wall? What is the floor made of right now, dear?**

She looks around slowly and blinks a few more times, the present slowly trickling back into her eyes.

**Harriet: Baby blue and dark brown oak.**

**Jessica: Do you know where you are?**

**Harriet: Your house, I drove here with Warlock.**

**Martin: Can we ask why you bailed on lunch yesterday? We got worried. Regardless of the reason, we aren’t mad at you.**

**Harriet: Thaddeus and I got in an argument is all.**

Jessica chews the inside of her cheek, out of her depth, not knowing how to approach this at all. 

**Jessica: Did it get physical?**

The change is instant. Harriet’s body locks up, her breathing is stuttered, tears accumulating in her eyes. The liquid streaks down her cheek, disrupting some of the make-up, revealing hues of purple-ish blue.

Their hearts break at the sight, disgust and truth settling terribly in their cores. Martin gently squeezes his wife’s hand, reigning in his emotions and comforting her all at once. 

**Martin: Our doors are always open, dear. Anytime you need anything, anything at all, you come here. We will support you and Warlock with everything we’ve got. **

**Jessica: You’ll be safe here, Harriet. Is there anyone you want to call? Anyone who can help you take care of Warlock during this?**

The woman’s brows furrow a bit, then raise in remembrance. 

**Harriet: Ashtoreth and Francis basically raised my son for 11 years. He adores them, but my husband fired the two before his birthday last year. I haven’t heard anything from them since, but I think I still have her information in books. Only an address, no phone number, unfortunately.**

Martin hums thoughtfully, scratching his beard.

**Martin: Harriet, with your permission, might I send a letter their way? I don’t intend on omitting any information, but if you wish it, I’ll keep things vague. **

**Harriet: Contact them. Ashtoreth was an unholy force back in the day, but she cared. She deserves to know everything, I trust her.**

**Jessica: Alright, now. Harriet, are you hungry? Would you like any refreshments?**

**Harriet: Just tea and some biscuits please? I don’t have much of an appetite right now.**

A boy raises from where he’s been sitting. His short brown hair is messy from him pulling at it in anger. Without a sound he picks up the cucumber by his feet and walks to the garden, meeting up with Warlock and Ainsley.

* * *

Dear Ms. Ashtoreth Nanny Ashtoreth,

Hello,

My name is Martin Whitly. My family and I have recently moved to Tadfield from America. We have had a lovely opportunity to acquaint ourselves with the Dowling family.

I must commend you and the gardener. Warlock is an absolute darling boy. He and my son, Malcolm, have frequent playdates. Initially, I was surprised with Warlock’s macabre knowledge, but I’m now delighted by it. Those two frequently trade information that even I have yet to learn, it’s quite astounding, the brilliance of children. He’s still fond of you two, often telling Malcolm about your lessons, lullabies, and personalities. My wife and I would personally like to meet those who raised such a wonderful young man.

Unfortunately, I am not simply sending this letter as a jovial greeting and update. I get no pleasure in stating that I suspect Thaddeus Dowling is harming his wife. My wife and I have not seen it outright, but Harriet has bruises on her cheek. I fear that something terrible lies in the midst. Right now is not the optimal time to alert authorities, as my family can only do so much to protect her and Warlock. It would be greatly appreciated if you could assist us in protecting and providing support for their family in their time of need. Please think about it. 

Signed,

Martin Whitly

* * *

A week passes. Harriet and Warlock have been in and out of the Whitly estate during this time. Taking bits of clothing, essentials, and personal items into their new rooms. They are tense, understandably so. According to their faces each time they return, it’s clear that Thaddeus remains the same. 

During this week Martin and Jessica are busy with preparations. While his wife settles them into their rooms, providing comfort and open arms, Martin stays in his private study. He’d exhausted his personal journals the day Harriet visited with a bruised cheek. He was trying to stay true to his new goal- his new life, but the pull was ceaseless. These were his friends, basically an extension of his family, and they were being hurt. He could put a stop to this… but he’d made this move to protect his wife and kids. He couldn’t bare to think of Jessica’s face, rife with betrayal and disgust, if he broke his clean streak.

Martin didn’t seek Thaddeus, no that would be too tempting, seeing the vile man in front of him. No, instead the doctor pulled out The Surgeon’s tools. He stares and rolls containers of liquid in his hands, replaces scalpel blades, and meticulously cleans his personal teapot, cup, and saucer. When that didn’t satisfy the itch, he releases a sterile syringe from its plastic packet and measures out a dose of paralytic- enough to take down a full grown, slightly overweight, disgusting beaurocrat. Martin paces around his fine china. A damned chest is cleaned, tarps taken from their hiding spots. The Surgeon is retired, but what’s a little jog down memory lane? 

_ Martin, thinking: No. No jogs, no nostalgia. Only a new life and dew friends. Now, go upstairs and support them. You promised Jessica you’d change, now stick to it! _

As he draws closer to the front of the house Martin can hear frantic knocking, a man yelling for help, and sobs. Jessica reaches the door first, and Martin can hear the breath punched out of her. The doctor reaches the door and feels his blood turn to ice.

Warlock’s preteen form is cradled in an unknown woman’s arms. She looks like she could be extremely severe. Her eyes shielded by small, black-out, shades, a complete black tweed outfit, sharp cheekbones, and deep red lipstick. Martin thinks she’d usually give off an intimidating aura, but now, clutching to the still form of a child, no more than 12, she looks broken. Tears pour freely from her shades, breathing ragged with emotion, but otherwise silent.

Harriet is awake, gingerly holding her wrist to her chest, sobbing and shaking. With her short sleeved blouse Jessica and Martin can see everything. All the bruises, small tears littered about at the epicenter of the contusions. She’s standing close to the woman holding her child, asking if he was okay, pleading with her to wake him up. 

Closest to the door is an unknown man with white-ish curly hair, face wrought with worry and urgency. He’s dressed opposite of the woman, all beige and white and light egg shell blue. Jessica distantly notes that he looks like a softer vision of her husband.

**Brother Francis: Sanctuary, please! Please! We need a doctor!**

**Martin: Come in. Jess, get Ainsley and Malcolm in their rooms. I need my bag.**

The doctor’s gaze sweeps over those in front of him.

**Martin: Follow me.**

* * *

Malcolm had been in the hall, fresh from the kitchen with a stick of celery for their slug haven, when he heard everything. Dread shoots through him when he hears the broken, familiar sobs and the unknown voice begging for medical help.

The young boy steeled himself for the horrors that awaited and rushed into his father’s medical office. He grabs the medical bag, along with extra gauze and two pairs of gloves. Walking into the living room, Malcolm gets to work clearing the long coffee table, using the nearest chair to hold the supplies. He’s done by the time their guests arrive and his eyes zero in on his unconscious friend.

**Martin: Malcolm out.**

**Malcolm: No.**

**Martin: M-**

**Malcolm: I won’t leave them!**

The boy levels a determined and resolute glare at his father, daring him to send the boy away.

**Martin: Fine. But I’ll take care of Warlock. Help look after Harriet.**

His son nods and watches the dark dressed woman gently deposit his companion, then rushes out with his father to wash his hands (lathering up to the elbows, like they were preparing for surgery).

Malcolm hugs Harriet lightly before donning his gloves and getting to work. He gently cleans the torn skin. There’s some blood, but nothing that requires any stitches. The boy carefully applies antibiotic ointment, before gauzing and taping over them. Next, he asks to see her wrist. He gently feels for any fractures, getting some relief in finding nothing. It’ll hurt, but it’s better than a broken wrist. After icing some of Harriet’s bruises and wrapping her wrist, Malcolm hovers near his father and his friend. Before Malcolm can ask or overthink, his father announces the boy’s condition.

**Martin: Contusions on the thoracic and abdominal areas, but thankfully, no broken ribs. Breathing is stable… one other contusion on the dorsal side of the cranium accompanied by an inch long laceration with moderate bleeding.**

Dr. Whitly gently opens Warlock’s eyes and shines a pen light. He sighs, shakey, but relieved, and pulls the light away.

**Martin: Pupil dilation is normal. It’s promising, but we can’t rule out a concussion. **

The red haired woman clenches her fists and hisses, leaking vitriol and relief all at once. The gentle looking man just sighs and pulls the seething woman into a hug. Harriet silently weeps.

**Malcolm: We need to wake him up, dad. He needs to be conscious to get a proper diagnosis.**

**Martin: That’s my boy.**

The doctor hugs his son and watches as the boy gently pats the other’s shoulder, calling out his name with the same tender care.

Warlock grunts in pain as he slowly regains consciousness, opting to keep his eyes shut. He complies with his friend’s requests and questions: wiggling their fingers and toes, arms and legs, answering questions with an affirming or negating grunt.

**Malcolm: Warlock, can you sing for me? I’m going to need to check if your having trouble speaking.**

With another grunt, Warlock takes in a steady breath, and hums a bit. The familiar notes cause someone’s breath to hitch, it sounds like they choked back a sob.

**Warlock: Go to sleep and dream of pain. Gloom and darkness, blood and brains. Sleep so sweet, my darling boy. You will rule when Earth’s destroyed.**

It’s only when they feel a cold hand grasp his that he peaks open his eyes. Eyes that immediately go wide as they take in the person crying over them.

**Warlock: Nanny?**

**Nanny Ashtoreth: You remembered my lullaby, my darling boy?**

Warlock remembered the song. He also remembered seeing his father beating his mom. He remembers pushing the man away before things going black. His breathing goes ragged with encroaching panic. It dissolves slowly, with a gentle forehead kiss from his nanny and a delicate pet on the cheek from his mother.

**Harriet: We’re safe now, love. We’re at the Whitly’s house. He and Malcolm fixed us right up. Your Nanny and Gardener rescued us from that house after you… fell asleep.**

**Warlock: Brother Francis is here too?**

Gingerly sitting up, Warlock can see the light and soft looking man wave at him.

**Warlock: You look different…**

This gets a nervous smile from him.

**Warlock: YOUR TEETH! You got them fixed!!**

The sudden outburst draws a laugh out of everyone effortlessly. They’ll heal, things will get better.

* * *

Jessica descends the stairs shortly after and is endlessly relieved to find both of the Dowlings patched up and smiling. Scraped and bruised, yes, but alive, still able to find the will to smile after everything. After many reassurances and gentle hugs she leads them to their rooms.

**Jessica: Your injuries aren’t serious but you two still need your rest. Let yourselves heal for a bit. If you need anything, water, pillows, pills even, just give me a shout okay?**

Harriet looks ready to cry again and Warlock was not far behind. Jessica sighs in sympathy and kisses their foreheads.

**Jessica: He won’t get away with this, you hear me? As far as I’m concerned, you’re family, have been family for a very long time. We’ll get through this.**

With one final hug she closes the door. With one deep breath, the Whitly matriarch’s eyes darken with rage.

A kiss is placed on their room before she rushes downstairs into her husband’s private study, fully intending to give The Surgeon a push. Finding everything already in order is hardly a surprise to her. She’d wanted to wring that bureaucratic bastard’s neck the day she saw those bruised knuckles. Still wanting to provide a nudge, a nod of approval, she plucks her handkerchief from her pocket and kisses it, tucking the lipstick laden cloth under a meticulously filled syringe and scalpel. 

Jessica returns to the living room and softens at the sight of her little boy’s violent tremors. He’s been so strong, helping his father care for them, having to see the damage up close. Apparently, he’s reached his limit.

Malcolm storms out of the room and into the garden, the adults all look at each other, all thinking something along the lines of _ That Can’t Be Good _, then running after him. He’s just about to yank handfuls of wolfsbane when a cold hand stops him. The grip is by no means harsh, but it feels concrete in its mission from keeping the flora out of his grasp.

**Nanny Ashtoreth: These flowers are very poisonous, young man. It would be wise to leave them be.**

**Malcolm: Let me go!**

**Nanny Ashtoreth: I will not.**

**Jessica: Sweetheart…**

**Malcolm: No! That pig hurt them! He has been hurting them for a while, he isn’t going to stop as long as he’s _here_.**

Martin tries to rest a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder, but it’s shrugged off and met with the righteous fury of a twelve-year-old boy. 

**Malcolm: _Thaddeus_ owns one of those pretentious, big football rings. The cut on the back of Warlock’s head, the torn skin on Miss Harriet’s arms, that ring caused that. Why? Why was Warlock’s wound deeper? **

Warlock’s nanny is silent, glasses slipping down her nose. The boy looks into the red-headed woman’s eyes, completely unaffected by the demonic slits, and continues.

**Malcolm: I’ll tell you. Thaddeus Dowling was beating Miss Harriet, and Warlock saw. He intervened, maybe shoved his dad away and grabbed his mom. When his back was turned Thaddeus struck. Mad that someone interrupted his good time, enraged that it was perpetrated by someone he thought so low of. My guess is that punch knocked him unconscious and that disgusting _bitch_ started stomping on him. **

Angry tears fall fast and free down the boy’s face. Everyone is shocked by his deduction. Its vile, it’s sickening, and what's worse, its right.

Malcolm is scooped into his father’s arms before he can make another pass at the toxic foliage. 

**Malcolm: He deserves to suffer! He’s a monster! Let me get him!!**

Broken sobs escape him now, forcing him to pause his furious shouting.

**Malcolm: Please.**

**Jessica: That’s enough, love.**

Martin glances at the other adults and is partially relieved to find quiet sadness held back ire. 

**Martin: There’s no such thing as monster, hon. Even if there was, they’d never do that. There are only people, and people can be very good or very bad, or any mix of the two. The being that did this to your friend, to Harriet, Those are the acts of a vile, violent, disgusting human. Don’t let monsters take the credit. This was all his fault, all responsibility for this sits squarely on that man’s shoulders. **

**Malcolm: Warlock said… that everything, even bugs, deserves kindness and a second chance. Both of them deserve kindness, but they didn’t get any. Why should _We_ give _Him_ a second chance?**

Jessica frowns and turns to stare at the very flowers her son was trying to harvest.

**Jessica: We’re not.**

The light-haired stranger, the gardener, speaks up before her son can fully process what she said.

**Brother Francis: Everyone should have the right to a second chance, dear boy. That doesn’t mean that everyone _deserves_ one. People who commit atrocities like this, like other things bad in of itself, deserve neither mercy nor redemption.**

Malcolm cries at the truth of it. That bad things happen because of bad people, that good people suffer for no good reason, that revenge isn’t an option (for a 12 year old). By the end of it all, the boy’s out of tears and exhausted in every sense.

**Jessica: Would you like to sleep?**

A shake of a head.

**Jessica: Do you want to stay with them? I think that both of them are resting in Harriet’s room.**

A nod and a small squeeze.

**Martin: M’kay kiddo.**

The doctor smiles softly at his guests.

**Martin: Be back in a tick.**

With that he and his wife lead the boy to his friends. The elder Whitly’s remain silent until the door is once again closed. 

Jessica lets out a shaky sigh and rests her head on her husband’s shoulder.

**Jessica: There’s a gift for you, in your office. **

With that, she treks back to the garden, her husband in toe.

* * *

They hear the duo before they see them.

**Nanny Ashtoreth: I am going to skin him alive and roast him over a spit.**

**Brother Francis: We can not kill a man! Have you forgotten our circumstances? Our old… employers might still be watching us! We can not risk our lives and the lives of others just for vengeance! I thought we agreed to lie low? Humans are the cause of this, let humans solve this.**

**Nanny Ashtoreth: You look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t want to end that miserable man’s life. I _know_ you want this as much as I do, as much as the rest of that family does!**

**Brother Francis: I share your ire, but I cannot simply vivisect him with a sword - much too messy. And I’m not saying we _can’t_, I’m simply stating that we need to… be careful is all. **

**Nanny Ashtoreth: … Just enough of a bastard, indeed.**

Jessica clears her throat and raises an amused brow. Martin is radiating murderous delight.

**Jessica: Are we interrupting something?**

Angel and demon alike startle at their presences. Martin smiles, just a touch to the left of ‘normal.’

**Martin: It’s nothing we’re opposed to, but I agree that some arrangements are in order. Tell me, are either of you privy to the tale of _Murder on the Orient Express_?**

The gardener’s eyes light up with excitement, soft smile shifting into something a bit darker. The nanny raises a brow at her beloved and gathers that it must be something that involves a lot of planning and ends similarly to the demise of Julius Caesar. They all share a delightfully dark smile and get to work.

* * *

The stage was set. The Surgeon’s tools were polished and ready. Jessica, Astoreth, and Francis would keep the rest of the family preoccupied and provide similar recounts of Martin Whitly’s whereabouts if needed. All they really needed to do was wait for their target to come to them. 

The boys are outside, merrily taking turns being hoisted onto Nanny Ashoreth’s shoulders to gather the best apples. The three chat excitedly about the treats soon to come, accompanied with Warlock’s lesson on apple seed toxicity, and Malcolm’s seemingly ceaseless questions. 

Harriet and Jessica chatter contently on a blanket laid out on the grass. Ainsley’s not too far off, tending to the slug haven, her cursive homework all but abandoned. 

Inside, and angel and a (mostly) reformed serial killer raid the kitchen cupboards. Butter, flour, and salt are combined and set to chill. Pie tins and pots are set out, eager to be filled with the apples lovingly picked outside.

**Brother Francis: You have doubts.**

It’s a statement. His tone is confident in its assumption and dammit he was right.

**Brother Francis: You have been wanting to do this, wanting to see that man pay for his actions. Still you hesitate. Why?**

**Martin: I am not a good man, Francis. The whole point of us moving to Tadfield was to start fresh.**

He looks outside-they’re smiling and enjoying the perfectly gentle rays of sunshine.

**Martin: What if I go back to my old ways? What if I lose them? I can’t stand to think of a life without them with me.**

**Brother Francis: You won’t. Ashtoreth and I will make sure of it.**

It’s said with such confidence that Martin has to stop and wonders just who the nanny and gardener were. It was rare for people with similar, deeply suspect, moral compasses to cross paths like this, let alone get along with each other.

_Murder by Numbers_ filters through the outside air. The song’s drums miraculously sync with the harsh wraps on the Whitly’s front door, the volume minutely shifting to accommodate and mask the resulting aggravated yells.

**Brother Francis: Dear me, I don’t think we were expecting visitors! Go on then! I’ll take care of everything here. Best for you to attend to our guest.**

The cherubic look alike levels Martin with a perfectly tranquil smile, but his voice drips with honeyed malicious intent.

**Brother Francis: Make certain that this…**

He gestures to Harriet and Warlock, happy, but haunted by their abuse

**Brother Francis: … never happens to them again.**

Dr. Whitly considers the circumstances. Those he loved the most all wanted this, he’s been guaranteed safety from the police, he’s been itching to do the damn thing for a while. Who was he to refuse the majority’s request any longer?

* * *

**Martin: Mr. Dowling! What a pleasant surprise! How may I help you today?**

**Thaddeus: Where are they?**

**Martin: I've no idea who you're referring to?**

**Thaddeus: I know you’re hiding them here. Give them back to me now!**

**Martin: I’m still unclear about who you’re referring to. Would you care to elaborate?**

**Thaddeus: That wench Harriet and the annoying brat! Are you daft?**

The doctor only smiled at the disgusting excuse of a man.

**Martin: Yes, well, I don’t think they want to see you right now…**

**Thaddeus: Does it look like I care? I just told you get them, so go fetch.**

Martin smiles on unperturbed. He delights in the way Thaddeus grows uncomfortable.

**Martin: Quite right. They’re are downstairs, follow me please.**

They make their way deeper into the house in silence, getting farther away from the garden and closer to The Surgeon’s private study. Upon finding the room empty, Thaddeus whips around to sneer in Martin’s face.

**Thaddeus: Where the hell are they?**

**Martin: Oh, they’ll be down shortly. Now… can I interest you in some tea? I imagine that you’ll be leaving as soon as they show, why not make yourself comfortable?**

The eldest Dowling scowled at the man as he watched tea pour into a single cup and tore it from the other’s grasp to chug it messily.

**Martin: How unbecoming of an American beaurocrat. **

The doctor hums pleased when the cup is placed roughly in its saucer: empty.

**Martin: Thaddeus, do you know the condition we found your family in when they arrived at our doorstep?**

Thaddeus attempts to respond but finds that his face is no longer cooperating with him, all that comes out are slurred noises of distress. 

The Surgeon simply carries on, gliding across the room to shut and lock the office door. 

**Martin: Do you have any idea how much you’ve hurt them? How much suffering you’ve inflicted on your wife and son?**

He unfolds a clean tarp onto the floor just as Thaddeus attempts to run, promptly falling onto his face. The doctor dawns a clean set of scrubs and gloves. Martin didn’t count on the other three to join his fun, they had to keep those uninvolved safe and distracted. Rather than attendance-he took requests. Suffice to say, Thaddeus had a long and painful few days scheduled, and Martin couldn’t wait to get started.

**Martin: No? Don’t worry… We can find out together.**

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've spent A Bit on this, and I hope its good? I kinda thought up the idea and have been feverishly writing on an off for the past month and a half. 
> 
> Prodigal Son is a Delight to watch. It lets me stretch out my crime solve-y/ forensic muscles and goodness knows I haven't been able to do that in a while. 
> 
> I hope yall found this a decent read!


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